


Winter Soldier Snippets - The Dragon Prompt Edition

by Kare



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Buckys PoV, Gen, Steves pov, Tags will be added as we go, mainly freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:36:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 17,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3159758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kare/pseuds/Kare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky centered snippets, based on this prompt:<br/>http://500themes.livejournal.com/1033.html</p><p>Or just generally snippets that happened to happen...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Demon tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You might want to skip this one.”
> 
> Like saving your best friend was like an unwanted meal you could skip.

Natasha hadn’t been the first.

“You might want to skip this one.”

Like saving your best friend was like an unwanted meal you could skip.

He understood that Sam only stuck around because he didn’t put any pressure on the man.

It was nice… but also a bit disconcerning. Because deep down inside Steve knew that the man was likely to disappear or break, should Steve ever really put pressure on him.

And this couldn’t remain a game.

Not forever.

Not when there was so much at stake.

And there were days when he actually progressed. When it seemed like they had a lead. When it seemed like it was getting somewhere.

But there was always something… wrong.

A lead just missed.

A disturbing noise.

A focus directed the wrong way.

And of cause there were the comments.

Maybe he didn’t want to be found - yet.

Maybe he was not ready yet.

He will come to you… when he is ready.

Well meaning sentences.

All delivered with that side eyed glance.

Like he was lying to himself.

Like it was all obvious… to people that were not him.

And maybe it was…

Just…

He didn’t mind a game of cat and mouse.

He didn’t mind following one false lead after another.

But he did mind having to correct them, over and over again.

Never to their faces.

They would only pity him more.

But inside him, they were chipping away at an energy well that was slowly running dry.

Strength sapped away by their words.

Resolve weakened by one argument too many.


	2. The Beginning of Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People sometimes look at him and think it is sad that he has lost his best friend.
> 
> But they don’t understand.
> 
> They make it sound like something recent...

People sometimes look at him and think it is sad that he has lost his best friend.

But they don’t understand.

They make it sound like something recent.

Like something that might still be mended.

But it’s not true.

Because he did not loose his best friend when his world was swallowed by white powdery snow and his consciousness was not to return for a few decades to come.

It was before. Way before.

Even before the stint in the Austrian Alps, where Steve would later cut him off a table and drag his barely conscious ass out of there.

They used to be like… a thing. Not a force to be reckoned with. Not with Steves health. Not a couple, though he knows what half of them think. Not a single entity. They were well capable to spend entire weeks barley seeing each other. Had even - every now and then - spend days not talking to another due to some stupid misunderstanding, that seemed all to trivial now.

He hadn’t lost Steve during training either. It wasn’t the physical, that set them apart.

It was that first bullet, not fired on a range - as if there had ever been time to train for something like that.

No, the first bullet in the field. His only choice between living and dying. Everything else only a delay. Only a way to put of the inevitable. He had to think like that. Back then. When it still seemed as if he might make it on his own. As if he might make it home.

He had seen, really seen Steve’s glamorous war. The thing he so longed for. The thing he was hell bent of getting himself into.

And Bucky hadn’t liked it.

It wasn’t about the bad food. About the weather. The unfavorable conditions. Or about too much time to think with too little to do.

No, it was that one moment in time, when that thing in you, that knows - even before hand - that killing is only a matter of pulling the trigger on someone… when that thing learns that killing comes with a price. That it changes you. Changes you even more radically then the Russian Mindwipe.

Because all the Russians wanted from him was to function.

All Steve wanted was for him to stay the same. To laugh along. To joke. To not be affected, whenever he snipered another thread right off Steves back. To not be affected by the foolharded readiness with which Steve threw himself into trouble and always, always, relied on Bucks to have his back, to ensure his safety, to be a reliable, steady given, unchanging, right at Steves side. To be unaffected by the nightmares one would never admit to.

He hadn’t been able to do that.

He had grown hard.

Maybe cynical.

Never openly.

But it was there, at the center of what ever remained of his being.

And this hardness couldn’t - for the life of him - relate to _that_.

To Steve’s humor.

To the fact that Steve never showed that any of those memories gnawed at him.

To the fact that everyone threated Steve like the worst he had to accustom himself to was all the new technology.

To the fact that everyone was so sure that their favorite hero could leave all of his past behind. And settle. Here. Like it was anything to aspire to.

A part of him knew, that he was the more human of them. Maybe his emotions were bleeding all over the place. Maybe he was shutting himself of from the hope for betterment. But at least he was honest. At least, right here, right now, he was honest.

He didn’t mourn his friendship with Steve.

Because this battle fate had lost for him - ages ago.

Now Steve was just one of those people - superficial like all the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when my mind fuses Sebastian Stans comment that he tried to set Bucky apart from Steve, because you could always tell a senior soldier from a certain hardness, that was missing in the newbees. And this meet with Chris Evans comment that the Cap isn't one to bleed on other people...
> 
> let's hope Marvel will provide us with something just a tad more uplifting, right?


	3. The one no one sees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a certain art to blending with the wallpaper...

They used to have their roles reversed.

It used to be Steve.

The one that could blend with the wallpaper.

The one that saw everything and hardly ever spoke, unless they were in the safety of their room.

Even there he was shy, quite, lining up his argument before he voiced them, one by one, making an argument so compelling… he hardly ever...

It was okay.

It was quiet.

And half of the times, when words failed Steve, he would present Bucky with a picture, his face half lowered, the slightest ting of pink on his ears…

And how could Bucky not realize what a treasure he had gotten himself?

 

Then there was the serum.

And Steve… sort of filled out.

And of cause - after that - people also started noticing him.

After all it is kind of hard to miss those kind of muscles.

And now it was Bucky who had to learn how to blend with the surrounding.

It was not a skill that came easy.

But he had to learn.

Because more often than not Steve would blindly run forth and someone had to make sure the big fool would not get himself killed.

If a broken bone or a torn muscle meant that Steve was able to save people: he would. Every. Single. Time.

And it didn’t matter how often he healed from it, every time it happened Bucky got even more determined _to not let it happen again_.

And he learned, quite early, that Steves focus shifted elsewhere.

And if the blond did not realize just how many people Bucky had to kill to keep his friend safe… if often was for the better, too.

It was Bucky who turned quiet, who kept his mind to himself, to let Steve act as the uncontested leader, only offering in private the things he saw, the things that could make the difference between ‘most of us survive’ and ‘all of us survive’.

People didn’t let them work together because they were friends.

People let them work together because they were bloody good.

 

And then there was a big chasm and time they would not talk about.

And each of them had to learn how to blend in with the crowd for different reasons.

Bucky, because he was hunted.

Steve, because being asked for an autograph once about every 15 minutes isn’t even half as thrilling as it sounds.

 

And when finally they had made it, when Steve had proven just how stubborn he could be and how determined he was to have Bucky back to where he belonged - right at his side - those two revisited their skills in different ways.

 

Bucky was the one who could still slip out - buy some milk, a bread, a newspaper - without anyone recognizing him.

But it was Steve who could slip into a narrow hallway, take a different turn with a perfectly innocent face, disappear behind some unmarked door, only tucking Bucky behind him at the last possible moment.

And when Tony voiced, at a briefing, long suffering and still slightly puzzled, the frequent question: “Where have the two love birds disappeared to this time?”… most of the time not even Jarvis could answer right away.


	4. Sit with me

It were the little things.

It always were.

Buckys hand as he helped Steve up.

Their shoulders bumping into each other in some dark hallway.

A touch at the other mans sleeve, stolen right in front of a camera.

 

He had horded them. Like some love sick teenager.

Even as he was approaching his 30s.

 

And then there was the ice and he woke up decades older.

 

And sometimes, in the middle of the coldest night, he would revisit his treasures.

It might cause his breath to sound funny, almost as if his asthma was returning.

But it also caused his heart to beat just a bit more freely.

 

And when they did meet again, almost by accident, in the middle of a crowded park, lost for words, frozen into indecision… it was Steve who grabbed Buckys sleeve, dragged him to the nearest bench, waiting the other man out, while at the same time relishing in something he had almost feared lost.


	5. Freedom in chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had started quite by accident...

It had started quite by accident.

Of cause Steve had - kindly, but not too subtly - asked Sam to leave him and Bucky to sort themselves out.

Sam was still popping over often enough.

But the nights were theirs.

Not that they did all that much with it - at first.

Just learning the rhythm of the other. Just getting used to another person close by. Trying to figure if they could make it work again. Just… _some_ way.

 

It had started… almost like an accident.

One of the missions having gone south.

One of the victims, tied up in some corner, dead, but - as Bucky put it, later, almost in a whisper - “He looked so peaceful.”

Not the peacefulness of the dead.

Not the one of the long suffering and finally redeemed.

No… the one of people… spaced out… was this how people put it these days?

His body must have cramped up, bad. But his face told all to clearly the story of a man who had found a place of peace inside himself and…

 

It was just the unexpected, okay?

 

Bucky had not expected it there.

 

That’s all.

 

But Steve saw.

And understood.

And stored it for later reference.

 

And when he did come back to it, three months later, only in the form of an offer, never as a demand, he put on that carefully tilted head of his, that always indicated a puzzled, unvoiceable question.

 

And yes, Steve could have tried to talk around it, mask it, make it about something else. Only that they did not have that kind of relationship. It was a friendly offer.

 

And after four days in which Bucky had not slept, had almost scratched his skin raw on the closest door frame, had overdosed himself on coffee and underdosed on actual food… Bucky did need to calm down. And Steve was past the point of caring about the ‘how’.

 

So he tied Bucks arms behind his back, linking them to his ankles, bending him this way and that, knowing damn well that Bucks could get out of the ropes in 30 seconds or less - if only he wanted. He tied Bucks knees together methodically. Watching Bucks stomach muscles flutter, as he was testing out the ropes, trying to figure out how much skill would be needed to free himself.

 

But it was only a test.

 

Because Steve could see the moment when the strain on Buckys back started to spread through his body, first calming the body and - a good 20 minutes later - calming the mind.

 

And all the while Steve sat at the door, waiting, watching, being alerted for the two of them.

 

And when Bucky did open his eyes, another 16 hours later, Steve still sat there, quiet, alert, a little stiff… and no sign of food, water or drawing equipment close by.

 

Bucky wasn’t exactly sure why he filed it away as important, but that Steve would watch over him, with undivided attention… it suddenly made getting up easier.

It let him slip out his restrain, motion practiced and easy, though a little stiff, too.

And maybe Steve acted like an overly tired zombie for a while.

But it was okay. Bucky had enough energy to keep Steves back.

 

And, look, they weren’t stupid.

 

They knew what people would say, if they ever saw them like that.

 

But it wasn’t about sex.

 

It was about one person helping another with unconventional means…

 

It wasn’t about sex… not yet.

 

That part would only enter, unbidden, like a thieve in the night, a good six months later. After a week with three stupid charity evening. And Steve had smiled through it. He had smiled through the three dances with him which had been auctioned off. He had endured the pawing of grown women. He had endured the false and brainless giggles of even more grown women. And he had almost drowned in the bosom of a woman that… even Steves politeness had to concede if she grew any more she would require a second chair. He had smiled his way through selfies, photo bombs, confetti showers, tactless and unfunny renderings of his life… and the inevitable pop culture tidbit about his Captain America persona that he could have happily lived without.

 

It was in the way that Steve ran inhuman lengths, drank alcohol in inhuman quantities, despite or because they had no effect on him… and it was in the way _that particular song_ played in their flat every spare minute.

 

And Bucky was no idiot.

 

Something had to give.

 

And Steve wasn’t the kind of person who knew how to work it out of his system all by himself.

 

So Bucky decided to just frigging do something about it.

 

Bucky knew he couldn’t ask.

 

Ask Steve about something like this, and he will talk his way out of it before you have even finished the first half of that sentence.

 

So Bucky _forced_ it. Knowing, as he always did, that Steve would stop him, should things get too far.

 

The part were he manhandled Steve to the bed? A fair warning.

The part where he used all the rope to fix Steve in a semi-lying position? Also the part where Steves breath did something funny, but remained mostly steady.

Shutting the shades and turning off all the light? Needed with someone like Steve who over though most things and would never loosen up, unless you gave him the right conditions to disengage his brain. Or maybe to engage just the parts that he would usually never allow himself to… whatever.

And so Bucky started his exploration, with tongue, teeth, lips, hand, nails, feet… everything that would wring a wine out of Steve. A keen. A whimper. An uneven panting, that would have even put Steves former asthma attacks to shame. Until there was the convulsion of muscles, a half torn cry, a heaviness in muscles, that had not been there before.

 

And still. He. Did. Not. Stop.

 

Not now. Not the next three times. Not until Steve was nothing but a motionless, sweaty, snoring pile of aching muscles and endorphin.

And Bucky did blanket himself over the sleeping man. Giving Steve the one thing he craved but never really allowed himself: unrestrained human contact. Contact with someone who didn’t particularly care about Captain America. With someone who didn’t treat Steve like some trophy.

 

And some would argue that it was sex and therefore love and all was happy roses.

 

It wasn’t.

 

Yes, it was sex.

 

But it wasn’t love.

 

It was about two close friends trying to heal each other with unconventional means.

 

Two people, broken, and with no one else around to mend them.

 

It was about acceptance. About mutual acceptance.

 

Some might call that love. Some might recognize it as precious.

 

But to them it was just how things worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I wrote that... o.O


	6. The vacuum of time

When you grow up, time seems to be endless. A single tea with your aunt can last forever.

When you have fun - like that sunny day in the sandbox, shortly after you meet your future best friend for the first time - it seems like time flies. When it is time to leave it feels like you haven’t even gotten here yet.

When you hit twenty, you have forgotten most of the first half of your life, except for an anecdote or two, that will haunt you for the rest of your life.

Long before you hit thirty you remember stuff that never happened to you, things you picked up from the daily news reel, things you saw so often it almost feels as if you were there yourself.

And you want. You want nothing more. Just to be among them, among the brave and honored. To do your part. Even if no one understands. Not even the best friend that is still with you after all those years.

And over the next few years time is flexible again, like a rubber band. Training seems like a never ending nightmare, but you still want. Because somewhere out there is your friend who waits for you to come to his side. Because you promised. So you push through.

That first run after the serum? Even while you remember all of it in perfect clarity, it still seems like it could not have been more then 30 seconds.

Punching Hitler a few hundred times? A repeated visit to the hell of boredom. But well, still one of the better options you had at the time.

But when you heard what happened to him, to the only person he came here to find… you tried to ignore those strange back flips time did then.

But for all the good time that came later, you would feel it again. Made all the more prominent by the fact by now you came to rely on him even more heavily, and by the fact that this one person you came to rely on to have your back was no longer at your side.

Of cause you did the one thing that people expected of you, even Peggy: you pushed on.

But time felt like syrup, pinning you down, making every move feel like you were pushing against water. You grew tired of it so fast.

And of cause, it was the cowards way out.

But you choose to leave.

Thinking, just for a moment, that the worst was over now.

What could happen next? What ever it was, the arctic ice would hopefully engulf you, numbing you to whatever else fate wanted to throw at you in your last moments.

You were fine.

For what felt like 15 minutes. But people insisted that you had been down there for decades.

And only now did you feel the true cruelty of time, the vacuum it can leave behind in people who did not experience it.

And if you were honest: for a while you just assumed that you HAD died and this was the way the afterlife would continue to tease and torture you.

You would have loved to insist that you were sane and everyone else lost his mind…

But there it was, yet again, like a wicked mantra: time.

Time you had not lived, time you had not experienced, time that had happened, things that had changed over time… and that your guts still insisted upon:

This it not how it was meant to be.

But still… they all hid from you more pressing questions behind the same old foe:

The vacuum of time… and the things they did not deem you fit to know yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is actually from last years Nano, but well... one more down, right?


	7. Don't scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t scream, they had told him.

Don’t scream, they had told him.

Don’t scream at the pain.  
Don’t scream at the memories.  
Don’t scream for a certain someone to find you.

Don’t scream against the storm.

Don’t scream because of nightmares - the neighbors might knock.  
Don’t scream - the therapist is here.  
Don’t scream - it was just a misunderstanding.

Don’t scream…

And there had been silence.

A silence so deep, that he would not even talk.

Want a coffee?  
How are you today?  
How’s it going?

And they had tried to coax him.

With silly games.

What color is this?  
What animal is that?  
Do you know when you were born?

And he had stuck to the lesson.

The one about not screaming.  
About not making a noise.  
About not reacting.

Till it became almost so bad he wanted to strangle someone.  
Wanted to smash someones skull in.  
Wanted to break bones to microscopic splinters.

Just to see in someone an emotion he could no longer name.

And there was the quiet.  
And more quiet.  
And a numbness inside.

And it became peaceful.

Because they stopped probing.  
They stopped asking.  
They stopped appearing.

And it was… quiet.

Quiet.

Quiet.

Till the blond.  
The tall one.  
The one that raged.

That one was screaming himself raw.  
Even as the others tried to drag that one away.  
Even when an unhealthy sound suggested that that ones voice was to give.

But that one did not only scream.

He pounded against the glass.  
Pushed and shoved people.  
Broke through 3 centimeter of concrete.

And there was… loud.

And eyes focused.

And though words failed him…  
And though his voice failed him…  
And though his body failed him…

He howled along.

Like a wolf to the moon.

Because someone was screaming the pain he could not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really good with poetry.
> 
> But it is still better than the prose I wrote today, so...


	8. Touch me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, one more, just to prove I can do silly too... and then it is off to bed.  
> I don't think my mind is improving as the evening draws on...

_Touch-a-touch-a-touch-me_

_I wanna feel diiiirtyyyyyy…_

 

Okay, who ever had put on the Rocky Horror Picture Show was a god damn fool.

Because apparently it had not broken one, but two super soldiers.

 

 _A sweet transvestite from transsexual Transylvania_?

 

When had those become appropriate phrases to introduce to two people… a bit out of the loop?

 

And can you possibly see those suspenders through the eyes of someone… not from around?

 

Actually… you can.

 

All of them could.

 

After the next masked ball.

 

The one which Coulson had to attend in a wheelchair. - Dr. Everett V. Scott, right there.

 

And how was anyone supposed to recognize the poor man, without a Brad and a Janet right beside him?

 

And it was a private party at Starks Tower, which greatly lessened Natashas and Clints resistance.

 

So, there you are:

 

Three down… and in a just world, it could have been that. No one left to go. Because all of them… that might be overdoing it.

 

But… the part where Steve and Bucky had gotten themselves the soundtrack? And maybe someone had told them it was a theme party? Someone who would not, no, ney, never, not even with a lot of prompting from everyone else, _might_ have been Bruce?

 

And unfortunately neither Steve nor Bucky have the required… _skinniness_ to become Frank’n’further or Riffraff… not anymore.

 

But tell them it is a free age. And everyone is sort of experimenting around. And what harm can it do?

 

And get them to edge each other on… just a bit.

 

Well… there actually _might_ be photos, of a certain Sergeant Barnes, pulling of the cape and the dress rather… well… _well_. And have you seen the mittens? Okay, maybe they did not exactly fit his metallic arm… _But_ … But!

 

But have you seen Captain Rogers? Sergeant Barnes’ Riffraff? Because Steve might not be skinny, but give him _that_ hair, and _those_ loose fitting rags and take into account _that_ mischievous twinkle in his eyes, every time his Sergeant ordered him around…

 

Well, thankfully all of the Avengers are nice and well meaning people.

 

And _no one_ would think about storing images like that as bribery material.

 

Not even Natasha… maybe...


	9. Cabin by the Sea

They all had strange dreams.

Things to aspire to, after the war.

 

Dum-Dum had wanted a beach all for himself with drinks, cigars and beautiful girls.

They really should have never taken him to Italy in the first place.

And when it became apparent that Dum-Dum was much to restless to sit on a beach for the rest of his time… he wanted a tank. Because no matter how intoxicated you are, you can always drive a tank without trouble… without too much trouble… with… let’s just drop it.

 

Jim… he was just the kind of guy to take up living on a mountain, somewhere quite and isolated.

These days he would maybe teach kids at a dojo or something.

But back then… well, okay, there was that one thing about using his name to promote his very own shooting range… it just… well… sometimes life gets in the way, okay?

 

Falsworth?

These days they would make him a honorary Mythbuster or something.

The man was always happy when he could blow something up.

Didn’t stop him from being a good soldier.

But the others always shock their heads when he said: in old age, when it is time to retire, if he should ever make it this far, he will spend his last years in a circus, training tigers, doing tricks, doing a few explosions every night.

This, of cause, meant assuming that circuses would again become a thing.

After all most of the animals could not be fed during the war and…

Well, that’s what some plans are for, right? For a bit of unrealistic dreaming.

The others always only shock their head.

 

Gabe?

Gabe was the kind of guy who wanted to live long enough to marry his childhood sweetheart and have a truck full of kids.

That part did work out… somewhat.

His health didn’t allow him to enjoy it for long.

 

And Jacques?

He was the kind of person who was as happy in danger as he was in the quite with a bottle of red wine.

Everyone sort of assumed the man would simply become a winegrower, should they ever make it to peace.

 

And him and Bucky?

Well, way back, when Steve still had his asthma, doctors always told him to take a cabin somewhere north, right at the howling sea, and more or less wait for the salt-watery air to clean his lungs out.

Of cause back then that had never been an option.

Because of money and all that.

But… do you know that Jessie song? The one about the trailer by the sea?

For one or two years, when living in Brooklyn became manageable but wasn’t exactly a joy… they had entertained it as a notion, as something to hold onto.

Neither of them had ever known what to do at the sea.

Okay, Bucky likes fishing.

But that isn’t something you normally do at storm wiped stone beaches, so…

Anyway, when ever someone had asked them:

What is your dream after the war?

They had phrased it as a holiday to take.

Something to look forward to.

And then just see where the wind would blow them.

 

That half of them assumed that Steve would take Peggy there and leave Bucky behind…

Well, you don’t have to spill all your secrets in a single interview, right?

 

And Peggy…

Another one of the marrying kind.

She did get her wedding and the kids and a long and fulfilled life.

It’s just… everyone sort of knows that her husband wasn’t her first choice on that matter.

 

The point is:

As is often the case with dreams, none of them worked out quite the way one imagines them.

 

The only two who actually got a second shot at it were, for reasons to convoluted to explain here, them - Bucky and Steve.

 

Two men who looked to be in their 30s. But carried around enough nightmares to last them a lifetime.

 

And they didn’t make it to the sea as a holiday.

 

It was more one of those last-resort thing.

 

And as is often the case with those:

 

It wasn’t the most joyous occasion.

 

For starters: February isn’t the best time to visit the sea.

 

And they didn’t make it there because they needed a holiday - though, honestly, they did - but because everything else failed.

 

Phrased differently:

 

They didn’t allow Bucky and Steve to work together because they were good. They let them work together because apart they were even worse - as three trashed apartment interiors on Buckys side and two almost burned kitchens on Steves side showed all to clearly.

 

Something had to give. And they were here to figure out what…

 

So… how was this to go?

 

Well…

 

A lot of things you would assume… if you take into account that there wasn’t all that much to do.

 

Mostly they sat on top of each other and rubbed them selves raw with each others presence.

 

There is no nicer way to phrase it.

 

Steve was the first to falter.

 

He got himself a number of pencils, some cheap paper and got himself out into the cold to draw… whatever. After all: what are frostbitten fingers if you know you will heal?

 

The days weren’t particularly long, but he drew as long as he could.

 

Leaving Bucky to breath a bit more freely.

 

It was three days later that Steve returned to an empty cabin.

 

He didn’t panic. He didn’t question. He didn’t look out of the window every few minutes… mostly.

 

The one thing he _honestly_ didn’t do was to call any of the Agents.

 

Instead they settled into a rhythm.

 

Steve was out drawing half of the day. And Bucky was who-knows-where. (Freezing his ass off on a nearby lake, trying to fish, if you really must know.)

 

Both of them took to returning at the oddest hours.

 

And if in Steve’s sketchbook weren’t just trees and snow, but a scene of a snowball fight which never happened… a Hulk in a Santa Clause gear in front of a splintered trunk… a picture of Bucky at a pool table… or a barely discernible sledge ride…

 

Well… unlike photos, drawings were for memories that had never been real, right?

 

On the sixth day Steve had half a mind of starting a conversation in post-it notes or whatever… when he returned to the cabin, finding the lights on.

 

Right in the kitchen Bucky knelled, dissecting a salmon the length and width of both of Steves arms - effectively ruining another kitchen. But well, there’s only so much one can worry about.

 

Steve left him to it.

 

Because Bucky and the kitchen… that was one of those relationships where the presence of anyone else would just interfere.

 

And apparently there was a way to produce quasi-smoked salmon with the things found in a regular kitchen.

 

And if the fish was still a little raw… well, they sure had eaten worse before _and_ during the war.

 

And maybe they did eat on the floor, on a hastily spread and mostly crumbled blanket. And maybe the lights were dim, though not for a power shortage but for common human laziness. And maybe they were eating with their hands, just like at the old times… because knifes and forks meant more washing up and they both were bachelors at heart. And maybe the first unguarded touch of grease smeared fingers happened when they both reached near the same fin at the same time. And maybe, in the dark and the quite, instincts took over. A ritual decades old, where Steve withdrew his hand, mumbled something that could count as an apology, while at the same time stealthily grabbing a bigger piece - in this case the fishs head.

 

Now, fish eyes are tasty, if you are into that stuff. And fish cheeks might not be the biggest, but they are okay - again, if you are into that stuff.

 

And Steve? Honestly isn’t.

 

And there is a difference between being hungry and eating because of that. And actually enjoying what’s in front of you.

 

The one who is into fish eyes? Bucky.

 

Who would not have said a thing.

 

Because… well, because.

 

But also the one who raised a sardonic brow when Steve held the head beside his and voiced a disinterested “Blubb.”

 

Yeah, not the most sophisticated words. But probably the first real conversation they had had in two months.

 

Steve passed the head to Bucky, never once commenting that slurping on a fish head doesn’t win you any beauty contest.

 

Somewhere around then they settled.

 

Enough for Bucky to later get his still fishy fingers on Steves drawings, more guessing then seeing in the dimn light.

 

And Steve doing the one thing he had done as a kid… or a teenager… or a semi-adult.

 

He talked. He invented. He described.

 

At a different time, those would have been far of dreams. Things they would never reach. And that today seem almost modest. An evening at Coney Island with all their friends. A double date in a fancy restaurant. A trip anywhere-but-here.

 

All those things could be afforded now. They both had the money in their bank account and no idea what to do with it.

 

So now… the dreams didn’t get bigger by default.

 

They were short of time, after all. Not for real. No one had figured out yet just how long they might be around after all. But on a day to day basis…

 

Just imagine. An evening seeing that one play a friend had kept gushing about some 70 years back. They probably still put it on… somewhere. A night at a dingy jazz bar, just like in the old days, still hidden in the shadows as to not stick out too much. Or that horrible, horrible evening, when Falsworth had tried to teach them pool… maybe they should really give it another try…

 

And who knows?

 

Maybe one day... maybe one day they would get a modest holiday at the sea and figure out what to do with themselves... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, right here, is the reason why I don't usually write on work days...  
> I am fairly sure there was a point to it.  
> I just can't find it any longer.  
> It got lost during the many breaks I was forced to take.  
> Needless to say, I completely pulled the first half out of thin air. I am mostly certain that the Marvel canon contradicts me on every single one of those 'dreams'
> 
> And the end... well, I didn't feel like leaving Mister Barnes out in the snow forever.  
> And whether or not my intuition that leaving-each-other-alone-for-a-while can cure most things... well... whether or not that one is true I don't know.
> 
> My excuse for posting this is that I wanted them to have that evening on the floor.  
> So...


	10. free choice - Natashas birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve did manage to forget Natashas birthday. It was Buckys throw-away comment that saved the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this just popped into my head and demanded to be written... even if it is uber-short (Maybe not so much)... and involves... well, you'll see

You know Steve, aka Captain America is... a bit of a forgetful snowflake.

 

He will work till he drops, all to finish a well phrased objective. And while he is at it he will forget things that he really should have remembered - Natasha's birthday for example.

 

Okay, Natasha did not really place that much importance on that date. But of cause no one wants to be on the bad side of an Ex-KGB assassin, or rather one of the most dangerous women you'll even meet. And there is also the part where Steve actually likes her in an platonic way, and he does not have too many friends, and... he should take care of those he has.

 

Totally.

 

So when he finally did remember, panicked and got verbose and nervous and on Buckys nerves... the other Ex-KGB assassin suggests a time tested classic:

 

"Just tell her you wanted to draw her something and couldn't finish it in time. She'll understand..." the _probably_ was implied. And Steve remembered that Natasha thought him to be a horrible liar. This would never work...

 

Until he remembered how he had found her, about two weeks ago, preparing for a night out so casually that only people who really knew her could guess how much effort she actually threw in for Clint...

 

It was an idea. And when he did come clean - an admittance of his forgetfulness and another verbose rush (during which he described her intended birthday present) later - Natasha was actually cool with it.

 

Which is why, about three weeks later, a slightly nervous Steve rang at Natasha's door, with a basic Caipirinha equipment, some of his finest brushes and the content of half a cosmetic aisle.

 

Steves idea had been as simple as ingenious, even if he had to admit he was a tad unsure about the execution.

 

He had promised Natasha that he would paint her nails. Her finger nails. Not in one boring colors. Not in ten. But with motives of her choice. He should have known that it was a horrible idea, just from the glint in her eyes. And let's be honest: he had known. But frankly: he expected something straight forward: a night sky, a globe, maybe musical notes, bullets if need must or... what ever. Something simple, you know?

 

So he and Natasha got comfy, Steve showed some of his drawings, just to convince Natasha that he really knew what he was doing. And some light hearted conversation and two Caipirinhas later (no sense in moderation, if you can't get drunk anyway), Natashe presented her right thumb to Steve and said - not entirely unexpected - "Well then, artist boy, paint me a spider."

 

And Steve did just that. Not the Spiderman-icon, viewed from the top, but rather a discernible black widow, from the side. It took ten minutes, some swearing, a bit of teasing from Natasha, but it was finally done. And at least as long as you placed the reference picture that Steve had found on the internet right beside it... it was okay. The dark-red background and some shading saved it.

 

Natasha was impressed. And told him to do a hawk on her other thumb. Which led to more grumbling on Steves part. As much as he regarded the internet as a blessing, there really was no way to paint a distinguishable bird on someones thumb. Not with what he had at hand. So he opted for an hawk-eye and some feathers in the background. It looked amazingly decent.

 

On their fourth Caipirinha the conversations turned a bit lighter and a bit more serious. Steve had started talking about his youth in Brooklyn, explaining some of the more colorful swearwords he had come up with. 

 

Natashas left trigger finger was next. "This does need an artists signature, don't you think?" And so Steve added his shield: a red circle, a white circle, another red, a bit of blue and a white star. Done. Less then 30 seconds tops. And perfectly round. Well done, right?

 

Until Natasha asked for Bucky's Star on her other trigger finger. Steve did as he was told. And it looked pretty perfect. But the lightness was gone from his touch. And of cause Natasha did pick up on it.

 

"You really like him." Understatement of the year.

 

Steve just shrugged his shoulders, trying not to ruin the last few strokes of shading. "He is one of the few people who understand how strange this world has become."

 

"But he disagrees..." There should have been a question in there, but it was more of a statement.

 

".... sometimes." Steve had a sad look on his face. There was no use to lie to Natasha anyway.

 

"You know... when I grew up, I had a few people I really believed to be friends with forever. Even after I became this." It was the almost throwaway wording, that told Steve everything he needed to know "But you know: it never worked out. That's just the way it is. With life, this job. What ever. But if the two of you can work it out, beside this job: you should. We all know it means lying. Or omitting things. Or... well, what ever. But if you can make it, it is worth a lot more then just a few unpleasantries."

 

Of cause she was right. Natasha usually is. But what use is admitting that?

 

The potentially awkward silence was cut short by Natashas pointed looks, a waggled middle finger and a laconic statement: "I think Starks reactor would look good next to your shield."

 

Which was one of the trickier things to draw. Because... well: how many people do have a picture of the arc reactor? Well, owning? Very few. But you'd be surprised what kind of pictures turn up on the internet after a night of partying... or two... or three... in a row. Then again, you probably wouldn't be. And come on: world saving is hard business. You do have to compensate somehow.

 

The light blue and black came together beautifully.

 

"How about the Hulk next?" as she surrendered her other middle finger. And here is a tricky one. How do you symbolize a dude with green skin and mismatching trousers? The not so brilliant answer? A green eye surrounded by green skin. One of those moments when the smaller brushes really came handy... That, and shading. Loads and loads of shading.

 

More Caipirinha and maybe Steve was not as immune to alcohol as he liked to say, because to him it did look rather awesome.

 

So it was the right hand again. The ring finger, this time. And Natasha asked for Thor. Well, his hammer. Because frankly: how else are you going to depict a god? And the yellow, almost golden background did bring the whole thing out.

 

On the other one? Falcon. And the point is: there was a picture of a birds eye and feathers, right on the thumb of Natashas other hand. But... once you know how much work it is... you do get reluctant to do it again. So... mechanical wings? About 15 minutes later Steve was able to tell you that they were just as much work. But well: at least now there were no doubles. And hey: beside his grumbling he did start to share a story or two about his and Falcons time in Europe. Point is: normal people don't go sky diving in cities. But there are - crappy, dark, night time - photos of Falcon (and his wings) who shot through the Brandenburg Gate... around the Eifel Tower... underneath some undisclosed bridge... surrounded by a flock of sparrows... underneath another bridge... though Pragues smaller alleys... another bridge... inches above water... 

 

And yes, Falcon had lend his wings. Once. To Steve. Because it was only fair, right? And Steve had to admit flying like that was... neat. But shooting over water, only inches above it... that was truly amazing.

 

Falcon did it often enough. Almost every time there was a river close by.

 

But he flipped when Steve did it.

 

Something about it being unsave and all that.

 

But Steves wide grin wasn't fooling anyone: he had loved it. And he absolutely would do it again.

 

And he did count it as one of those things that the 21st century had to offer.

 

So, that's something, right?

 

And... well, only two fingers left.

 

And maybe a bit more Caipirinha.

 

And Steve had half a mind to use them for a moon and the earth or a night sky or some such.

 

But it was Natashas birthday. Well, belated birthday present. And if the lady asks for something related to Fury... well, an eye patch and some background colors were among the easier things to do.

 

Wanna guess who is missing?

 

Coulson.

 

And they might be on their second or maybe third bottle of.... Cachaça? Or Pitu... or some such. Probably a bit of both.

 

And no, Steve was not drunk. No way. He could have totally added some pattern to the necktie. Could have... would have... on some other day.

 

They did continue talking. Bringing up Coulson did open up completely different themes. The first mission. The first mission gone wrong. A late night phone call - don't ask - that had led to Coulson patiently listening to 13 minutes of Natashas moans and breaths. He hadn't blinked an eye. Hadn't blushed. But later he had added some frankly irritating links to Natashas bookmark collection...

 

Steve almost fell of his chair laughing.

 

And even though he knew there would be consequences... it was so worth it.

 

Of cause they later went partying. With the others. And of cause Natasha showed of her nails. And of cause everyone had some self complementing things to say...

 

But that was only after Steve learned that there were people who did... nail selfies, or some such. And who posted them on the internet. And that on this special occasion Natasha was among them...

 

It was however about three weeks before almost all of Steves designs could be bought as nail stickers - from an Etsy account that was in no way connected to Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N.? This is your fault. And you know it. You are welcome. Count it among your valentine presents...


	11. Alone in a crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He needed to choose...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight Age of Ultron Spoiler. If you haven't seen it yet and do not wish to know anything before hand... you might want to skip this... or wait a little longer.

“Cold leads on our missing person case”

 

That’s how Sam had phrased it.

 

And he had assumed that Brooklyn was… had been… could be home.

 

As if things ever had been that simple.

 

And of cause Steve hadn’t told them about his dream.

 

They would only ever give him the old quip about about a traumatized soldier and coming home and not belonging and all that jazz.

 

They would all insist on something as simple as this, because _those_ could be fixed.

 

Friends, a flat, therapy, Natasha’s still not ending quest for a girlfriend for him.

 

They were all well meaning.

 

But it was also well meaning bull crap.

 

His real problem was a lack in farsightedness.

 

Then again: how could he ever have imagined ending up like this? A test-tube product with a world wide following. Because that what had gotten him here in the first place: a wish to save the world, one problem at the time.

 

The ‘coming home to perpetual peace’ myth was just that: a myth.

 

And he had used it like everyone else: as a means to get through.

 

When another night in the drenches, the cold, the wet and the near misses, when they were close to devouring your soul, there was always that one promised dance, that one long planed family meal, that one peaceful vacation of a lifetime.

 

You knew, even back then, that most of it would never come true.

 

And it was why sometimes, when one died, he sometimes took the dream of another one with him. And more often then not the other one would follow.

 

He knew enough examples of this.

 

And after the thing with Bucky…

 

He had been meant to be one of them.

 

Because no matter how fleetingly, his peace dreams had always included Bucky.

 

And he understood, on a intellectual level, that the dream the Scarlett Witch had shown him meant a necessity to choose.

 

He had seen the people in his dream bleeding and laughing.

 

And if you ask people about the war it is supposed to be gory and scary and gruesome and all that.

 

And it is.

 

But it is also other things too.

 

A joke in the middle of enemy fire.

 

Mortally wounded still on the run.

 

And that palpable hysteria that would break through that the most uncalled for moments.

 

Because nothing sets a person off like facing certain dead and surviving.

 

But this kind of life left you honestly unsuitable for any other kind of life.

 

Because if he had been serious about running, of slipping below the radar, he could have done that ages ago.

 

Of cause it would be something secluded, just to protect his few personal friends, keep them out harms way, out of the way of things that were bound to follow him.

 

And if he wanted it he could have pulled it off.

 

He was clever enough for that.

 

But a part of him had always wanted both.

 

Being a hero and getting the happily ever after as a reward for it.

 

And that would not work.

 

It couldn’t.

 

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t turn into a full time farmer if he set his mind to it.

 

But he was unlikely to ever be farming with Bucky.

 

There would be no happily ever after.

 

Only this, here, now. Going on in this way and improving day to day circumstances.

 

So maybe for the sake of everyone involved it was about time he committed to this heart, body and soul.

 

There would be no happily ever after with Peggy or the Commandos either.

 

He had given up so much already.

 

But the problem was that a part of him still hoped to build a new normal including Bucky.

 

And he couldn’t give up on that.

 

And if he wanted to have the Winter Soldier it was practical to remain in a familiar surrounding… even if the better phrase might have been a ‘suitable surrounding’.

 

You had to start somewhere.

 

And the catch was…

 

What if that idea wound up in flames as well?

 

After all he was the guy who would charge into an enemy factory with a target sign painted on his back.

 

He could force himself to say goodbye to the outside world. It would reduce the dangers to civilians. So there’s that.

 

But he couldn’t possibly stomach another life crumbling around him.

 

Even if it had not even materialized yet.

 

He could stomach never fully arriving in a time that was not really his.

 

But no matter how uncertain his future, he could not face it without a glimpse of Bucky in it.

 

Even when he knew that he was setting himself up for disaster.

 

* * *

 

There was a protocol to hiding.

 

Hell, there was a protocol for everything.

 

Back then, it would have meant him being put on ice, being transported like a piece of luggage.

 

Not the most flattering description, but practical.

 

He could live with that.

 

Almost all of those protocols had included him back to Hydra. Or what ever of it remained.

 

It would have been so easy.

 

It would have solved a lot of problems, too.

 

Most of all it would have solved the problem of his continued existence.

 

He had been defective. Ultimately he had failed in his mission.

 

His memory had been corrupted. Probably beyond the point that could be solved with a mind wipe.

 

He was practical. He was the best. And he was not particularly keen on dying.

 

He could have hid in a crowd.

 

But there were things in his mind that sometimes forced him wide awake in the middle of the night with a strange rawness in his throat.

 

So he tried his hands at solitude. Assessing the damage done to himself.

 

He was not entirely sure how that had meant him ending up with a cabin up at the Great Lakes.

 

But it was manageable.

 

He didn’t recall ever building a home with his own hands. And it was wobbly. But it was his.

 

There was a close by stream, allowing for fishing.

 

He was good at setting traps. Hunting humans and hunting animals wasn’t all that different after all.

 

And while he wouldn’t turn into a farmer, he knew a few places that would grand him berries or even a bit of sweet honey. It was bothersome. But it also felt less like a treat to ones self and more like a well earned reward.

 

It could have been quiet. It could have been secluded.

 

But the truth was, that he wasn’t alone here.

 

There were shadows of people whom he might have killed. Or whom he might have known a while back. Maybe handlers. Some bloodied. But all of them rather murky.

 

Faceless women. He knew what they had been. But he didn’t derive pleasure from those memories anymore. They were distant and long gone too.

 

And then there were the Steves. An entire army of them. Small, sickly ones, smiling, radiating, drawing. Determined ones, getting beaten up in an alley, being hit by a bully, doing shouting matches for all the world to hear. And even the newer, stronger one, dragging him out of a burning building, running head first into lines of fire, always… optimistic.

 

And in a way that was worse.

 

The way they would expect Bucky to react.

 

 _Look here_ , a picture. _Look here_ , I would have beaten them. _Look here_ , are you alright?

 

And it was worse, because they refused to be ignored.

 

They even started to refer to things that had happened throughout the day, no matter how uneventful it had been.

 

It was almost as if they were co-inhabiting this space.

 

 _Can I_ come with you? _Do you_ want me to help? _Shall I_ get this?

 

And he knew, he just knew, that there would be no chance at normal functioning unless he could get rid of those illusions.

 

…and maybe also the man who was eliciting them.

 

Because already the woods were bearing the marks of one to many non-conversation gone wrong…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still feel like this is missing something. But well... it was written in an airport. And I think considering that it still turned out mostly decent. ^_^;;


	12. Fatal Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Until Loki happened...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH... you have been warned

Regaining his life, at least for Bucky, had been a long and harrowing process.

Where people had been falling over themselves, trying to make Steve’s arrival as smooth as possible, his coming back had involved quite a number of court cases, sentences, negotiations, retributions…

Things had been a long way from pleasant.

But sometimes, when Bucky was down, Steve found the time to wrap his friend up in a blanket and place him in front of the TV and they would simply stay put until somethings stupid had made both of them laugh… every time that happened Bucky could relate one or two steps that brought him closer to developing something inkling to a daily routine.

Things had improved.

Step by laborious step.

But they had improved.

Until Loki happened.

And all that progress collapsed in on itself.

When they finally understood Thor had to physically stop Steve from mutilating Loki.

When they finally understood Buckys body had already broken down behind the fire exit.

One of histories deadly assassins was desperately clutching a piece of cloth he had torn out of Steves uniform earlier. There were tears running down his face, his eyes starring off into space. There was a tremor to his body worse then the cold had ever manages. And the only tell that he was still aware of the world around him was that his body impossibly tried to fold in on itself even further, as Steve approached him. All the while the chattering of Buckys teeth grew even louder.

 

And maybe there would have been words. Things to say. Just something. Anything to get through to him. Anything to make it better. But the devastation inside of Bucky was faster. His eyes had already turned dead as he lifted his head, voicing the only sentence he was still sure of: “I can’t go through this again.”

And what ever Steve might have been able to answer got drowned out by the echo of one, single, well placed shot…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, there is a LOT happening off screen, but I think the basic drift probably isn't that hard to guess.. then again: I wrote this, so I am not really the kind of representative reader one might wish for...  
> And in theory this should have been a fic a few k long... Buck being all "I can't do this again" and Steve all "I can't do this without you (again)"... and the two of them slowly patching each other back together. Not really what happened here. If anyone wants to write a happy ending for this: the idea is up for grabs.  
> It's just that my brain simply refused to write another few-k draft of something that probably never would get finished...  
> and this end note is almost longer then the fic... well... ficlet... gnarf
> 
> (I came up with this during Camp Nano, so, really, it is fine if you want to run with it ^^; )


	13. Frozen Bridges

Not then.

Not when they were fighting or when they were chased. Not during more fighting, not during yet another chase. Not even on the plane. And surely not in a deserted base in the middle of icy nowhere.

It wasn’t until Bucky was safely back in a cryo chamber and T'Challa had offered Steve food and a bed for the night… it wasn’t until then that Steve actually took a deep breath and the time to admit: Bucky had an incredible economic way with words.

“I don’t do that anymore.”

In that one moment Bucky had pinned him to the floor, practically pulverizing the floorboard beside Steves head. And Steve had felt it, then and there: Bucky was the stronger one again. If only they allowed it, there would be someone able to hold Steve down and take him apart at the seams.

The thing between them that had been of balance ever since Steve had taken the serum… it could have been fixed.

And right at that moment, Bucky had told him all that would ever again be said on that subject:

“I don’t do that anymore.”

It had been the most economic way of telling another person to get the fuck out of Buckys life.

And Steve felt that his inability to take a hint, just this once, was part of the reason why Bucky was back on ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I ever find a way to shoehorn this into a fic, I might... right now it remains a drabble... ^^;


	14. You must fear what you cannot speak

They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome.

And Steve knew that he had been slipping since years.

 

When they had first defrosted him, he had been told that he was clinically depressed.

He had understood the words.

Enquired about their meaning.

And he had just gone on with what turned out to be his daily life:

Get up, therapy, a morning run, read, eat, train.  
Try to pull of three human interactions a day.  
Run, train some more.  
Hope to wear out your body somewhere around three a.m.

Repeat.

 

And he had been convinced that if only he pushed through the motions some more, his mind would get the memo to arrive.

 

He had been almost indifferent when his doctor told him that he was still depressed, but obviously highly functional.

Apparently they had worse combos on the fields, because this was the day they cleared him for service.

So even though the stakes were higher now, Steve was still pushing through the motions.

And every now and then, when his adrenaline got pumping, he even got to feel alive.

It was an improvement.

 

And once he understood that they had indeed far worse on the field, he stopped trying to force a guilty conscious.

It was... something.

 

His dislike for Stark had a lot to do with the carefree attitude of that man.

 

It had been people like Nat who made a difference.

People willing to lay down their life.

Not carefree, but not so serious as to forget to have some fun at the side.

 

Of course there had been cracks in the life he had tried to build.

It all went down with the Pontimac.

 

And the hunt for Bucky was more of the same:

one dead end after another.

And Steve just trying to push through.

 

Of course, there also was the hunt for hydra.

A little diversity.

But not too much.

 

Steve had uncovered enough of Bucks past to understand the kind of trouble he was facing

Zola himself had goaded Steve about Bucky being the murderer of Starks parents.

And Nats folder had not been too much of an improvement either.

 

And Steve was back to square one.

 

Because the prove of Buckys deeds kept mounting.

 

And Steve should have said how horrible and condemnable those things were.

 

But his brain just kept insisting:

This is the guy who bandaged my knee.

The one who who sneaked chocolate to my bed when people didn't even trust me to keep soup down.

The one who had my back... All these times: during the war. In Prague, small town Italy, in Berlin or in France.

They had shared so many meals.

And Bucky had always been the one Steve trusted with a spare key to his apartment.

It was still the one person Steve would have sought out for an after-work beer.

 

And all these dead people were way too abstract.

 

Steves mind understood.

But his heart did not follow.

It kept insisting.

With ever new report.

Time.

And again.

 

 

And that was the real reason why he had never told Stark about his parents.

Because that conversation would have gone even worse.


	15. What lies beyond forever./?

Sometimes it was still easier to talk around some of the finer points.

Steve had tried to tell Stark that the guy who had wanted a stable home, a family, a place to call his... That this one had died a long time ago.

He had handed over the meager remains of the Avengers as a kind of peace offering.

And it was true that in his own way Stark needed them probably even more then Steve did.

But Steve had been lying.

The guy who had wanted these things still very much existed. Wanda had shown him that much.

But the guy who still very much craved these things had simply given up.

Of course he was not stupid. He would not turn down Agent 13. Which even halfway intelligent male would? But it was more... was it uncharitable to say that it was just one of these things to be crossed off a bucket list?

Because he had taken the time to think this through, just for a moment.

What if this turned into something just a little bit more serious?

Let's assume they would be lucky. None of them would die on the field. None of them would die because someone tried to get to the other one that way.

And then what?

A lot of waiting. A lot of worrying. Tons of lies. And even more things that were only half true. It wasn't something you base your life on.

Then there was the little fact that Steve looked to be in his 30s but was slowly approaching one hundred.

By the time he had outlived Sharon he would look to be what?

In his 40s?

But by then he would be what?

150? 160? Even older?

That did not sound like a reality he wanted.

Likely it would be even worse than losing Peggy. With Peggy there had been all these 'what if's.

With Sharon there would be all these 'had been's.

And Steve wasn't even sure if it was biologically possible for the thing he had become to procreate. To have children. To pass some of this on.

By the time he outlived them Steve would have hopefully reached at least his 200th birthday, but then again, one could never be sure.

And given all the things he had survived,  Steve was not even sure if he could opt out of all of this, even if he wanted.

Putting his head in a blender sounded like a pretty solid plan. Even his body should be incapable of going on without a head.

Though one could never be sure.

And Steve knew better than to end as a kind of lab rat for that ages version of Frankenstein.

 

Diving into a volcano sounded pretty solid, but then again life had already pulled a stunt on him once.   
  


And just that one fact, that he could not even face something as simple as dating without at least half a dozens safety nets in place, showed everything that needed to be said about that matter.

He would never relax. Never just be in a moment. Basically creating his own kind of hell.

No one should be expected to endure that from a partner.

And putting a brake on his work was a different kind of unimaginable.

A nice little paradox.   
  


And breaking out of this should have been so easy.

Go on.

Just do.   
  


Yet every time he tried his mind supplied the images of just were this would end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been toying with that idea for a while. I am not really sure if Steve is one of these "quasi immortals" and there probably could have been more angst. A lot more angst. But I think for Steve that would be one reason to stay the hell away from pretty much everyone... probably could have used a lot more polishing, but... well, I wasn't sure into which direction...


	16. How you suffered for your sanity

The worst times used to be right after missions.

They would get stranded in god-knows-where and would have to make do. Quite a few Sundays were spend with the futile search for food, because surprisingly not all places of the world believed in opening on a Sunday.

Steve still remembered that from before and he found it reassuring. Even if it was a bit of a bother and usually happened at the most inconvenient times.

He got stranded in the strangest places too.

Appearantly dressing up as knights and attacking each other with swords is still a thing. At least in some parts of the world.

He discovered Dixland and Rockabilly that way. And Elvis. And people marching against nuclear energy and for world peace.

He spend a memorable day witnessing people navigating self made rafts over an over glorified pond. He ended at food conventions and went through a lot more money then he would like to admit or consider.

Things were... fine.

Nat had goaded him enough about trying to get a life and actually living it. So it was more or less a quest of honor to come back with something, anything really, that could be woven into casual conversation. Anything to prove that he was alive in his spare time.

It were the nights that were the hardest.

Once, in an attempt to blend in, people had booked him into a real flat. Someone was kinda sharing while he was sorta not there. Nat tried to describe it as house sitting, which only made it sound as if the flat needed to be taken for regular walks.

And if anyone had asked, Steve would have insisted that he went along with the idea because of the huge windows and the water flowing right below it. Just for a calming effect or something like that. The truth was that he spend a lot longer lying on the couch and watching the stars, wondering just where the hell he had gone wrong. And just when he had managed to convince people that it was okay to leave him alone with his thoughts and a well kept assortment of blades.


	17. Lamentation

James wasn't sure why he ever brought it up to his therapist, but he used to be able to play the guitar. Not even overly good. But he used to be able to... before he lost his left arm and got it replaced with a mechanic one and lost that one as well...

It was just one of these things.

He was pretty sure no matter how sophisticated his new protesis would prove to be, this hobby was off the cards forever...

It was not even as if James missed it overly much. Just that he was mostly sure that the muscle memory was still there and he would never be able to ever put it to use...

Needless to say that T'Challa was perfectly capeable of accepting a challenge when he saw one...


	18. Somewhere

For a while he rented the places of other people.

It was just one of these things. The internet made it ridiculously easy to find people who would let their flat or a single room to a complete stranger.

And in a way it was like trying on different lives.

He found a single room in dire need of wall paper - that was advertised as if this was it's most important selling point.

He found that he liked his room sparse, but not devoit of the little niceties that made things homely.

He found an industrial space taken up by wodden boxes that housed not much more then beds.

He found that he could only tolerate sparse if he was not forced to listen to other people snoring at three in the morning.

He found quite a number of students who let their apartment during the months they went back home.

And he always found it fascinating what kind of obscure study literature people had lying around.

And as interesting as it was: none of those felt like home. They did not even feel like a live he was even remotedly suitable for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me or does your mental image of those places change, depending on whether you are imagining Steve or Bucky?


	19. Fractured reality

For Nat this was different.

If she had known him all her life and was pretty sure that he was the quiet and harmless kind and then he ran amok and killed people, she would have doublessly been shocked. Well, as shocked as someone with her skill set can be.

But she had known him like this. She knew right from the start what he was capeable off. And yet... here they were. And as long as people didn't get on his wrong side, he is one of the most kind and caring people, despite of what he does...


	20. Cloak of Darkness

He stopped renting other peoples homes when he noticed that there always seemed to be a TV to quiet ones thoughts and to drown out some of the more pressing matters.


	21. Sensual Command

It had taken time. But bit after bit, James had reclaimed his left arm.

He knew what he could do with it: kill people, block bullets, meassure which plums where likely to be extra tasty... he could do all that.

And every now and then, when his body made itself known and it wasn't just about pleasuring himself, but about fantasizing about someone else... he liked to use that particular hand.

He had to lie on it for a bit, just to ensure that touching himself felt like touching something human and not like being embraced by an ice bucket.

But when the temperature was just right... the sensation was just different enough to pass the hand of as almost anyone. Even as the one of one particular super soldier who seemed uncapable of getting a clue...


	22. Suffocating Silence

Maybe it was not exactly healthy but he picked up a lot about current values from music videos.

It had been a gamble. Almost every picture or color had a chance of triggering some unwanted reaction.

But there had been a time when he had been so desperate for a reaction, a memory, anything that could give him a grasp of the human being hidden inside him.

So music videos had been it.

They were not that much more outlandish then anything else this age had to offer.

Cheating was still bad, loving still good, music still covered everything inbetween - sometimes in suprisingly explicit language.


	23. Dream the Impossible

Steve had known that he was interested in guys and gals for a while now. It happened seldom enought that he caught someones eyes. But the people he took an interest on?

Yep, guys and gals.

He dealed.

Most of the time he dealed by firmly reminding himself that nobody took notice of a skiny bag of bones anyway and he would just have to learn to deal with that.

It didn't mean that he wasn't human.

And the guy who had recently taken over old flat right across the street? The one that had become available because Mrs. Turner finally sucumbed to cancer?

That one was quite a different story entirely.

For starters: this guy did not believe in window blinds. Or any other mean to cover up his window.

And that one had a firm tendency to walk around shirtless, allowing Steve a way too clear though covert examination of an exceptionally fine pair of abs, wide and broad shoulders that just begged to have someone rake their fingers over it... and a rather advanced kind of arm prothesis.

Steve was only human.

He had stared a while. It was... amazing. It wasn't one of those prothesis one attached to a stump. Rather it looked as if it was grafted right onto the mans shoulder.

Almost as if it was a real arm that just happened to be made of metal.

Steve was sure there was scarring.

He had sketched a number of... impressions.

Much to Nats amusement.

He had told her he could stop.

He totally could.

Which was why he had forbitten himself to stare for almost a week. That was before he awoke to raging hormons, a ghost memory of uneven skin under his fingers and a very clear memory of just what he had been intending to do with that tongue just moments ago.

And it was not - strictly speaking - Steves fault, if that guy didn't grasp the concept of window blinds. Just...

Steve resolved to deal with this, too.

Just act natural. Less starring. And deal with those hormons...

The next time Steve allowed himself a longer look at the apartment across the street, a huge palm had appeared, almost touching the ceilling. There was a room devider. So that was something at least.

And appearantly running around in nothing but ones boxers was a thing now.

 

The thing Steve should have seen coming?

Nats tendency to know way too many people. And her tendency to tell them Steve was doing portraits. And maybe even showing off blurred pictures - which she had taken on her phone - in an unobserved moment. Her tendency to choose the most... revealing option possible. And that fake innocent way with which she would leave Steves business card lying around.

The following phone call had been... something. Steve had managed to put his foot in his own mouth no less then five times in under three minutes.

And Steve had braced for the inevitable when the other one - Bucky - had asked Steve to show himself...

To turn the light on and show himself at the window...

"Fuck, I can count your ribs from here."

And there had been something in that voice. Something Steve had not expected.

 

He and Bucky both feigned suprise when they found themselves behind that room devider not even two days later.


	24. Authors Choice: It's November ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's November. And no, I will not live-publish 50.000 words ;P But with a little luck there will be a few bits and piece that can be used later.

It had been a trap and he had walked right into it. Why hadn't he seen it sooner?

He had been so careful. Too careful maybe.

The asset needed gear. And Bucky needed tech. And it was one of the things he could not compromise on. So why had he?

He had even marshaled along all those bright and right reasons. It would help with his recovery. With catching up with trivia. Or blending in.

After much deliberation he had even settled on the likeliest source to fall for these arguments: his therapist.

She was a kind one with a slightly off sense of humor and a body shape that labeled her as not dangerous.

He had still been nervous about bringing it up. He wasn't sure what would happen if he overstepped. If it even was possible to overstep. But the part of him that was still all to used to being punished still insisted on a waiting for a more or less favorable opportunity.

Her smile had put his mind to ease almost instantly. And she was quick to reassure him that if course they could follow his plan. He had heard the ‘but’ in there. And she had asked to at least hear her out.

"You have to understand that most online communication can be traced. You use this towers WLAN and Stark - in theory - has the means to track you. And if you are searching for something especially outlandish he might see it fit to bring it up at one point or another. That wouldn’t be too helpful. Now, a friend of mine, who also works here, it's testing some hopefully unbreakable gimmick. He can quiet possibly be tempted to let you test his prototype which also features some further security options. I am mostly sure I can get him to agree to this regardless of your take on the next suggestion.” And he had been lured to at least give a short nod. “You see, if we label this as therapy, you should be on the safe side. And seeing that November is just around the corner, I suggest we sign you up for NaNoWriMo. It is free, it is voluntary. It only spans a month. And it is about the idea of writing 50.000 words in that timespan. You don't have to tell me about it, but you can if you want to. I would just appreciate if you could update your word count daily and we should be good to go. So, how much of this deal do you agree to?"

It had seemed like an irresistible add. Which was why he at least thought to ask what was in it for her.

"Said tech guy will owe me a favor. I think it will do you some good to at least try. And I don't have to explain myself if I get a bit more chaotic during the next month."

Which had sounded fine. Or at the very least she had been sincere.

The deal had gotten him a phone, a laptop and a tablet. And it had been a bit irritating to figure that Bucky apparently had fans of his own. At least the tech guy had been very enthusiastic about meeting him.

It was only then that Bucky realized that his therapist had played him. She would win no matter what.

Bucky could choose to just update numbers and not write a single word and no one needed to be the wiser about it. But he would know. Which was about as bad as not participating in the first place. Because while he himself knew that nothing bad would happen to him, the asset would be on edge the entire month.

Or he could just admit that he liked a well done mission. He liked being good at something and succeeding. That wasn't all on the asset. That was also on him. So it really begged the question: what do you do with the prospect of writing 50.000 words?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of Bucky writing things down. Not only because he already has his memory diarys. But also because I think he is a dork. And he might use the chance to a) write down more memories and maybe become a bit more of a rounded, balanced or open person and b) because I think he is a dork I would very much like to read the rambling he writes about his team mates. ;P I also wouldn't mind fan fic in my fan fic - as in: Bucky sitting down and writing fanfics of his own. But unfortunately I am only a very small and unimportant writer and this will be the job of someone more talented. ^^;


	25. The beard

One of the things Steve really did not understand was this ages obsession with youth.

If he walked around clean shaven and in slightly baggy clothes then people inquired about his I.D. a lot. For a while he had been paranoid about this being just one more way of flirting and having to fight of people at the door of his apartment.

It had been Nat who had pointed out that a beard would very much help with that.

It had. It had also given Bucky an urge to run his finger over said bristles and the boldness to finally do something about it. So that part had been good.

The part where he was chosen to shave and act as a still barely of age kid to bait some millionaire or another? (His cultural cluelessness had helped with that one.) And succeeded no less?

That guy had still been young enough to be Rogers son. Barely. But the whole thing just left him feeling dirty either way.

It wasn't that he grew the beard back for Bucky, per se. Though the insistent way of the other definitely helped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to finally air out some of the things I wrote last NaNo. Beware. There might be more short stuff in the future.


	26. The one with the fidget toys

There are still days when Bucky just… stops.

 

Steve tries to fight it every step of the way, but when the other retreats into his heads and becomes unresponsive to even the most basic interaction… there aren’t that many ways to intervene.

 

Tony had taken to tinkering with the arm on those days. He wasn’t entirely sure what would happen if the other one snapped to attention in the middle of some soldering, but… well… only one way to find out.

 

They had already made it through some stages. In the beginning Tony had been extra verbose. Then there had been loud metal. Then there had been something that might be best described as companionable silence. Followed by a more normal level of banter from Tony's side.

 

Tony still wasn’t sure if he could label this as a friendship, but the two of them had moved forward in a way that other team building exercises could not really compete with.

 

Somewhere along the way Bucky had taken to palming junk: a piece of scrap, some moving parts, a screw, short pieces of cord - practically anything that could be comfortably hidden inside of a human hand.

 

It wasn’t for the first time that Tony wondered just how Bucky had made it through his time as the Winter Soldier and how right Steve was that Bucky had been powerless when he had been under…

 

It wasn’t exactly hard to understand why someone with Buckys history might be craving tactile sensations, either.

 

And if - years and years ago - people had tried to channel a portion of Starks overabundant energy with fidget toys… he didn’t have to admit to that, had he?

 

All the more since most of that stuff was overpriced garbage.

 

Tony was a genius. He could do better. A lot better. Definitely.

 

Interlinked chain rings, folding cubes, hand spinners, molded metal just right to run ones thumb over it, clicking pieces, screws and bolts, corded marbles, foot bags just right for throwing and catching, sand filled balloons, aligned arches, magnets, ringing baoding balls, small slinky toys, sometimes something as simple as a hair band…

 

Tony had had half a mind to get Bucky into pen spinning, if the risk had not been too high. One of the few hard and fast rules he had was: no clicking pens. Ever. For no one.  It was bad enough to know that one is quiet taxing on other peoples patience. It was another thing to hear it from someone who could not click a rhythm if his or her life depended on it.

 

Instead Tony formed rubber bands and balls, attached scraps of fabric to it for texture. And he showed Bucky the fine art of how to let a coin dance over the back of ones fingers, confident the other one would pick up the trick.

 

Things took a strange turn from there.

 

For one: Rogers relaxed markedly. He had taken to observing - with baited breath - whether or not Barnes - mostly an unmoving heap of over sized clothes and ill fitting blankets - still drew air. Now he simply had to watch the other ones hand. If it moved it meant there was still life in the other ones brain. Which was enough for Rogers most of the days.

 

Bucky had proven a quiet interesting dexterity with his fingers and Tony was biting his tongue to not bring it up in any uncalled for context.

 

Somewhere along the way those little gimmicks had migrated out of the workshop and into the rest of the tower. Tony knew better then make fun of Bruce for it. But Nat and a toy that did hardly more then spin between two fingers if you shoved it a bit? Perhaps Tony should not have been as surprised as he was when he finally learned that Nat had made a few improvements in the form of blades.

 

And somewhere around the third generation of Tonys mini folding cubes Barnes actually took to responding to words. Not just with words, but with actually opening up. Small nods or a minute shakes of his head suddenly were accompanied with  more elaborate gestures of his free hands and even a grimace or two.

 

And by the time Barnes had worked through his third hand spinning toy - Tony was rather sure he would manage a wear and maintenance free ball bearing kinda soon - Buckys words stared to flow more freely. Not all Tony heard got his strictest approval - seriously, those two granddads really had to remember to get a room - but apparently thoughts went faster when ones hands were occupied. And if Barnes had taken to sneakily supply almost all of the team with an unique tactile gift... well, Stark knew how to pick his battles...

 

And maybe how to sell overpriced trinkets to compensate for some of the damage done by having people around who could not always adequately gauge their own strength...


	27. no such thing as a white lie

Steve had believed it back then: that the things that had happened had not been Buck's fault. And that somehow that would make it all better.

 

It didn’t.

 

Partly because it would be too easy.

 

Mostly because it was a lie.

 

Being a killer had never been the problem. It hadn’t been when he worked as a snipper and did his own, not so insignificant part in keeping Rogers alive.

 

So what? He had killed the wrong people? Though shit. Welcome to a change of perspective.

 

What else was he supposed to say?

 

He had spend more time of his life as the Asset then he had spend as Bucky Barnes. And if he was really honest: maybe he still wanted people to call him Bucky, but there simply wasn’t enough left of him anymore.

 

Because Hydra had gone and broken him. And the only part of him strong enough to survive had been what turned into the soldier.

 

And Bucky knew that Steve needed to believe his little lie.

 

Didn’t stop it from being a lie.

 

Because Bucky had not been under all the time.

 

He didn’t want to contemplate what more they would have forced him to if he had.

 

And in a way he even knew that Hydra had given up on him in the end.

 

Being wiped for referring to people by name had stopped after a while.

 

They had told him to train people, but when it came to getting his superior out of a tight spot, they still put a gun to his head, least he developed the luxury of an opinion about the proceedings.

 

He still was send regularly, a part of him acutely aware that they only waited for a reason to scrap him.

 

And then there had been Nat. The one that had taught him that there are no punishments for misbehaving, only for being caught. Because that thing between the two of them? Had never been meant to exist in the first place. How they had managed to build up decades worth of history between them… he didn’t question. Because her presence might have been the one thing that kept him together long enough to survive till Captain America decided to show his face again…

 

And in the end it was the truth: the asset had been the strong part in him. The thing that pushed through when Bucky didn’t even posses the will power to lift a single digit anymore.

 

So hearing Steve, so sure that he could disregard what had happened in what was practically the majority of Buck's life… it was a lie. And the less they had illusions about it the better…


	28. Chapter 28

Bucky had this idea, an obsession really.

 

That thing between him and Steve - still so fragile and new - would end.

 

Not because one of them grew tired, not because of some big, world threatening event.

 

But because one of the many secrets Bucky kept would catch up with him.

 

There was enough in there that could be twisted out of shape, been given a spin, be told at the most inopportune moment imaginable… enough to send Steve running.

 

And Bucky knew he didn’t have to.

 

But he took to sharing his secrets.

 

At least with this one man.

 

Because even if at some point he might overdo it and push Steve away inadvertently… it would be preferable. Preferable over another psycho taunting Steve with the not so well kept secret, that Bucky and Nat had been… something during the cold war.


	29. touch me

The sex is great.

 

Being close to a human being again is great.

 

Being allowed to sleep in a bed. A real one. With human contact… how unreal those things would have seemed only a few months ago. Something normal for everyone else. But for him?

 

Strange how things change.

 

And all that only because Steve had chosen to mercilessly exploit Buckys greatest weakness.

 

Something inside him turned to putty whenever someone stroked his back.

 

Not the sexual act of raking nails over it to leave marks.

 

Not the functional touch of a massage hell bent on loosening muscles.

 

Not a friendly arm slung over a shoulder in an attempt of camaraderie.

 

No.

 

It was the sensation of nails barely touching skin.

 

Of fingertips only applying the most minute pressure.

 

Of being allowed to have.

 

And a barely concealed sound closer to the happy mewl of a cat then to a human being.

 

Steve could ask pretty much anything right then.

 

Sometimes it was for them to share a bed.

 

Sometimes it was a ploy to get Bucky to participate in the world outside.

 

And sometimes, when Bucky was feeling particularly brave… or agitated, he would take Steve's hand and place it just there, waiting, with baited breath on whether or not the other one would give in without Bucky having to use something as complicated as words.


	30. how to tame...

Just getting Bucky back to the tower had been more then Steve would have believed them capable of doing

 

Bucky had stopped running

 

Which was not the same as catching up with him

 

But it was a start

 

With one downside:

 

Bucky proved to be extremely sensitive when it came to sound. No matter if it was about loud voices, the clatter of a dish washer, the sound of rain or the almost inaudible whizzing of a computer… he hated them all.

 

And they stressed him out to no end, which was the real problem.

 

And apparently there are a few dozen cures and the people in the tower were determined to try every single one.

 

Steve had taken one look at Bucky’s harrowed expression and he decided to take a different approach.

 

Let it never be said that reading is bad for you.

 

Because a moving picture book had once explained all to well how to tame an animal.

 

First of all you need to meet them.

 

It was not hard to locate the closest couch to the place Bucky preferred to hole up at.

 

Then you need a fixed time.

 

Steve took a book and a blanket and sat on the couch

 

Relentlessly

 

Every day

 

From 4 pm to 4:45 pm

 

Not a sound

 

Safe for the turning of pages

 

And then leave

 

So they have something to look forward too

 

If maybe Steve also had the good sense to stock up on sweets, drinks and those plumps that kept disappearing from the kitchen… maybe he did try to apply some basic tactics.

 

For a week not much happened.

 

He could tell when Bucky’s eyes were on him.

 

But he pretended to keep reading

 

All to aware of the other mans eyes.

 

Or that he would bold should Steve do anything uncalled for.

 

After a week Bucky slowly migrated closer to the back of the couch.

 

After 10 days there was a definite interest in the plumps that Steve “accidentally” used to forget.

 

Somewhere around day 16 - and Steve had never known that reading could be such an exhausting experience - Bucky did approach the couch.

 

And for lack of a better strategy, Steve simply lifted the ham of his blanket, eyes trained on his book but not taking in even a single thing he saw.

 

It took another two days before a head - ever so tentatively - settled on Steve’s tight.

 

And he could have shouted from the roof tops right then.

 

Which would have been counter productive.

 

But still.

 

Another three days later Steve migrated to slowly stroking Bucky’s back.

 

Another two days later he focused more on Bucky’s hair.

 

Another four days later he came with sliced plums and alternated between feeding Bucky and stroking his back some more.

 

And just maybe he now knew for a fact that Bucky still snored like a chainsaw let loose.

 

They had been at it almost a month.

 

And while Steve was very much taken with the progress of things, it did startlingly little to ease the strain on Bucky.

 

So it was a bit of a surprise when precisely a month after they had started this, the other man stood in front of him, all shy and small, asking in a voice that was rough with disuse and just a bit too quiet to be understood on first try:

 

_If I promise not to kill you, can I get a real hug?_

 

And as much as Steve might have wanted to wrap Bucky in cotton and protect him from the world - he forced himself to keep still, discard the blanket, open his arms and wait things out.

 

It took another 15 minutes before Bucky found the nerves to approach the waiting figure.

 

Another six till he settled in comfortably.

 

Another three to shake.

 

Another nine to fall asleep.

 

And Steve did have the sense to maneuver them into a lying position every so slowly

 

And to tell Jarvis to allow them to be uninterrupted for a bit.

 

And maybe to fall asleep too

 

Because words weren’t important.

 

Having Bucky back, that was the part that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book refered is The Little Prince. The one (among other things) about taming (a fox). It's good. Go, read it.


	31. Chapter 31

Watching doctor who had only accomplished one thing.

 

Steve now harbored a number of phobies he would have never even thought possible.


	32. Snooker

For a time that obsessed with speed and spectacle, Steve found it incredibly that something like chess was still allowed around.

 

Or snooker.

 

He loved snooker

 

Preferably without the commentator droning on and on

 

Just two guys shooting sticks.

 

Maybe it was the most healthy memory to grow nostalgic about.

 

Some drinks in a god forsaken corner or the earth.

 

And the cold night air not enough to clear their heads.

 

But he liked it.

 

He liked remembering that he had lived - once.

 

So watching was a given.

 

Few better ways to relax…

 

It calmed his mind when he needed it

 

And it did a lot to keep him in front of the TV when going to sleep would have only let to a nightmare.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one actually started with Steve pleading with Thor to get him out of the tower, because he was tired of seeing Nat and Bucky together. All "I am glad for you, but I really don't need to be around for this". No one needs to read that part. So: have some hitchhiking Steve instead.

 

Turned out being on the road was a mixed blessing.

For a change he still got recognized startlingly easy.

But he also got left alone a lot.

And standing on an open road with no where to be and a complete freedom whether to retrace one step, move ahead of just turn around… it was not something he had been used to.

Steve didn’t care that he had the personal hygiene of a cave person by day three: sleeping under the stars and washing in rivers was amazing, even if mid November was far from the ideal time of the year.

And while there was a clamminess to his bones that refused to leave, the strain Steve had put on himself slowly started to melt away.

He spend half a day just browsing a book store - no doubt generating commerce for a flailing business.

And another half day just holed up in a diner with hardly more then 7.000 calories, a note book, a pen and the window seat giving a perfect vantage point towards a rainy world.

Suddenly hitchhiking to Florida seemed like a good idea.

And Steve was realistic enough: very few people would bother to hurt him if he tried. Fewer still were in any way equipped to succeed.

He had done more reckless things in his time.

He also probably should have known not to get too comfy.

He had made the conscious effort to avoid news papers, so he was not exactly up to date.

But apparently half the nation knew that he was taking a cross country trip - it sounded so Stark Steve really did not need to look this up - and people tweeting about it made it easier to track Steve.

Which is a problem if part of the reason to travel was to be left alone.


	34. Chapter 34

Somewhere along the way they had just fallen out of sync. Or maybe they just never had regained it to begin with.

After he had come back he had formed an easy bond with Nat. The two of them were pragmatic about a lot of things. For starters they didn't confuse care and love. Just because they had been a thing in the past did not mean they had to become one now.

All the more since Nat still waited for the return of someone special. And Bucky was more then a little hung up on the sweet little contradiction that was Steve.

Nat was the one to talk to him in Russian, the one he trusted to detangle his hair. And the one who could talk him down from almost every anxiety attack.

Things would have probably been easier if he and Nat had just fallen into old habits. But Steve wasn't the kind to really get the difference between love and sex.

And Bucky had been determined not to mess this one up.

Somehow it had happened anyway.

When he finally stopped relying on Nat to calm him all that much and made a conscious effort to meet the other people in Stark Tower, Steve had taken to avoiding him.

When Bucky tried to search him out in the gym Steve was always just finished and about to leave.

Bucky could hear him and Wanda laughing in the kitchen. The moment he rounded the corner Steve would be off on some important errand.

Movie nights were the worst. No matter how good the movie, it was always soured by the fact that Steve would sit on the other side of Thor, just out of sight and pleasant and relaxed enough, but never quiet addressing Bucky.

Some nights Thor wasn't around and things should have been better. Just that Steve always was on edge during those.

And it was only Nat's willingness to swear on her own life that made him believe that those two were not dating - yet.

But Bucky was not stupid.

It was probably only a matter of time till it happened.

And Nat grew more and more exasperated at the notion of calming Bucky over that yet again.

But it just seemed to unfair.

Steve and his friends had chased Bucky over the better part of the globe. And now that they had their mark Steve wasn't around to do much about it.

Bucky knew that he could win Steve over. Knowing the punk for more then 80 years had to be good for something.

But he was never given the chance.

And it was driving him up the wall - not in a good way.

And he knew that Steve still remembered him and probably even cared - Tony had not discovered Bucky's weakness for Amarettini cookies all on his own - but Steve refused to interact with him directly.

And maybe it should have been enough.

But Bucky knew he at least deserved a chance.

Leave it to those two to completely go over board with something as simple as figuring out ones feelings.

And going over board was still putting it nicely.

Because if Steve was that insistent to dodge Bucky, Bucky decided to up his game… tranquilizer darts seemed to be about right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a number of get-together scenarios last Nano... yes, I d believe that Bucky would drug Steve and drag him elsewhere... I just don't feel like I should be the one to write that particular scenario ^^;


	35. people watching

Since he had been defrosted Steve had spend decidedly too much time in cafes.

He liked them. He liked listening in on people - in a mostly uncreepy way, while browsing through the books he was given to read. They made him look all brainy while he read for the third time about things that had happened - just from a different perspective yet again.  
He was pretty sure that non of these descriptions really did justice to the truth anyway.  
And it was just easier to learn from all those people. He learned more about recent child rearing (beating wasn't exactly a thing any longer) or food (earlier rich people had eaten meat, now reach people were apparently all into vegetables, it had taken him some time to get the reasoning behind that one) this way. Students were still having the weirdest of conversations... and nothing drove home gay rights quiet the same way as people openly holding hands and kissing in public.

This age did have a lot to recommend it.

And quiet a number of things that did not recommend it as well.

But he started to like it.

All the more since very few people were openly hitting on Steve. Sure, he drew looks and every now and then someone might put two and two together... but he, alone with a book in a corner drew way less eyes then he did whenever he was accompanied by half an armies of body guards. And Steve held very little illusions: if push came to shove it would be his job to protect those suited people, not the other way around.


	36. As a rule Steve did not get sick any longer

As a rule Steve did not get sick any longer.

He just didn't.

So what ever he had been exposed to during the last mission - and the science bros were working on figuring that one out - it must have been something bad.

And even after Steve had been detoxed and placed under strict surveillance, people weren't exactly forthcoming about his care. And if there was one thing Bucky would not stand for it was people in those alien like hazard suits limbing around Steve's sick bed.

It had just been... according to air reading there was nothing else in that room that could have infected anyone. But it did not stop people from being overly cautious.

And it was not the kind of behavior that would inspire any kind of confidence.

And maybe - just maybe - there was a part of Bucky that would rather be sick with Steve then to be here all on his own, but he had long since chosen not to place too fine a point on that one.

So he sat in there, bringing library books that he was sure would be burned the second he left this place. It went in tandem with his personal opinion on Robinson Crusoe, so there was that.

Stark - even the big spender - had equipped Barnes with as much tech as his heart could desire.

And the rest had taken a very definite approach toward the idea that if Barnes was there and willing to spend every moment beside Steve, he might as well make himself useful.


	37. Chapter 37

There had probably only ever been one good moment to talk it all out with Tony and Steve had let it slide. 

_I don't trust a guy without a dark side_

Steve had simply answered, that maybe Tony had not seen it yet.

The more honest answer would have been that even back then Tony had stared right at it.

Steve had already made up his mind.

He would put Bucky above everything else.

Because he had known it back then:

Tony would always view the world as all about him.

The accord would prove so yet again.

And still Steve was stuck with the feeling that just maybe, if he had found the right words, this would not have turned into a bloody mess.


	38. Chapter 38

That hammer had moved.

Barely.

Steve had tucked and there was the most minute reaction.

Steve had not stopped because of Thors visible tension.

He had stopped because a king could not value one life over that of others...


	39. Chapter 39

Phobias don't have to make sense.

One of Buckys greatest worries was always that he was bound to be the one to watch Steve die.

Whether it was because of one of those idiot doctors who refused to treat someone as frail as Steve had been.

Or because of one of a way too long line of bullies.

Or because of one of the way too many other things that can befall a human.

His will to help Steve was partly founded in his refusal to let that happen.

It should have been better after Steve filled out.

It somehow never was.

Hydra had used too many possible piece of this nightmare for Bucky to ever forget about it completely.

It might have been the biggest factor in not killing Steve.

It was also the number one reason why he refused to go back.

**Author's Note:**

> I have the intention to a multi-fandom-thing. Or more precisely, this one:  
> http://500themes.livejournal.com/1033.html
> 
> These will be my Bucky-and-Steve centric snippets.
> 
> I am not so delusional to think I will actually finish, but I hope to add a few things every now and then. And maybe, if this ever gets longer, I might need to come up with a way to organised all those prompts. But for the moment I am just doing the prompts if the ring with me. And if I feel like it and... yeah, that, right there, is another new years resolution waiting to go to pieces. So let's see how it goes.
> 
> For the most parts these snippets will not be related. And I hope there will be a few more uplifting things as well.


End file.
